


L'Air Fier du Sauveur

by Samifer



Category: Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Guillotine, M/M, Public Execution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:33:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5417255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samifer/pseuds/Samifer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Augustine,” Lysandre said, but it was too late, wasn't it? It had been too late three weeks ago when it happened. It had been too late a week ago when he had been sentenced. It was too late now that they were sitting in the cell together.<br/>Perhaps from the very beginning it had been too late.<br/>Perhaps Lysandre had always been meant to die like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	L'Air Fier du Sauveur

**Author's Note:**

> additional content warnings: there are mentions of alcohol as a coping mechanism, mentions of a character vomiting, i'm not sure if lysandre's desire to be executed can be interpreted as suicidal in this case but be wary of that just in case
> 
> also available on [dreamwidth](http://javert.dreamwidth.org/1958.html)
> 
> this is heavy apparently (i mean, it does involve a character begging another character not to let themselves get executed) so fair warning (idk if it really deserves a mature rating but better safe than sorry...)
> 
> title is from _la rue nous appartient_ , that verse always makes me think of lysandre

It was only set to happen tomorrow and yet it seemed to Augustine that the air was already filled with the nauseating anticipation of a death soon to come. He couldn't be sure whether it was caused by his own nausea or by a real phenomenon, a real tension in the wind that blew on Lumiose City on that cold evening. Perhaps both; he didn't want to know. The trees seemed sinister, the buildings like large tombstones and concrete giants that were watching him as he walked. There weren't many people around, unusual at this hour in a busy city like Lumiose. The few he had run into on the way had seemed to know who he was and where he was headed, as if it was plainly written on his body even when covered by heavy clothing. Augustine Sycamore, renowned pokémon professor, rumored romantic connoisseur, soon-to-be lover in grief. It was all in his head, surely; but it was a powerful sensation nonetheless. He gripped his coat in an attempt to get it closer to his body, shaking a bit, and finally entered the place he had been searching for.

It was a bleak building, simply put, as police stations often were. The officer that was guarding it didn't bother to ask why he was there. She merely nodded and gestured to her colleague, a short man who seemed exhausted, as made obvious by the startled look he had given her, the look of a man who had just been woken up from a very short nap. He followed him through a corridor that lead to the cells. The professor heard his guide mumbling words of encouragements as they passed half-asleep drunkards, but he couldn't make them out, and didn't want to. He had given up on attempting a conversation by the time they reached the right cell.

Augustine had never stepped into a cell ever since that one time he had gotten into trouble as a young apprentice over a silly bet. Cells were cold, sad places reserved for criminals.

Those were his thoughts as he glanced at the obscured face of Lysandre behind the bars.

If the officer noticed his disarray, he refused to comment on it, and for that, Augustine was thankful. He unlocked the cell and, with a twirl of his hand, signaled to the visitor that he could step inside.

“You have one hour. I'll be at the end of the corridor, just call out when you're done – or if he tries anything fishy.”

_But I doubt he will_ , his tone said, and Augustine doubted it also. He nodded and entered the cell, flinching when he heard the man locking it again behind him. Augustine stared at the cemented floor as the sound of the officer's steps faded away.

“Bonsoir,” he heard Lysandre say, his voice hoarse. Augustine licked his lips, still looking at the floor, searching for the right thing to say.

“Bonsoir,” he replied weakly. He couldn't find the words he had repeated in his mind on the way to the station. They had ran off, it seemed, along with his ability to look the other man in the face. Instead, he mumbled what he had promised himself he wouldn't say.

“I'm sorry.”

Lysandre made a noise like a scoff, but it felt devoid of any trace of humor. “Please,” he started, before clearing his throat. “Please. Look at me.”

It took all of Augustine's willpower to get himself to lift his head and finally look Lysandre in the eyes. Sitting on a bed in a poorly lit cell, he seemed smaller somehow, less intimating, like an aging pyroar kept in a cage in a zoo long forgotten.

“Please, sit down,” Lysandre said. He made a vague gesture, encompassing the whole room, from the worn out bed he was himself sitting on to the brand new sink in the corner.

Nodding, Augustine sat on the sole chair present in the room. It creaked. The cell was cold and slightly humid, like the inside of a cellar.

The silence was thick, a suffocating mist, and Augustine couldn't bring himself to open his mouth again, for fear of getting any of it inside him.

“Why are you here?” Lysandre asked finally, in an even tone of voice. Augustine waited for him to add something else, but he didn't.

Truthfully, it had been weeks – two? three? – since Lysandre's arrest. Since Lysandre had attempted to kill everyone in the region he loved so much. Since Lysandre had been first branded a terrorist, an extremist, a bloodthirsty mass murderer. A rich man who wanted nothing but to bask in the blood of those of the lower classes. A fraud! A disgusting man with insane ideals. A traitor to his own lineage. Augustine remembered all the words, because he had been carefully collecting them ever since then, keeping them all safely inside a worn out notebook.

It had been a week – or less? – since his trial. Lysandre had pleaded guilty. Some reported he seemed serene, happy even, as people spat on his name and everything he had built, as children were brought in to testify against him. His subordinates hadn't been found. (He had hid them well.)

Augustine refused to testify. He had locked himself inside his apartments and drank all the nice, expansive wine Lysandre had bought for him over the years until he couldn't spell his own name or Lysandre's anymore, and then he had slept. And slept. And slept.

He had woken up to go buy the newspapers only to be faced with Lysandre's accusing eyes on the front page, a less than flattering picture illustrating an article about his public execution.

Then he had slept some more.

Presented like this, it was a good question: why was he here? And where was he weeks ago?

“You're going to die.” The words slipped out of his mouth like a bile he had been trying to keep in for too long. It burned his lips and made his stomach churn.

Against all odds, Lysandre smiled, half of his face shrouded in darkness. “Don't we all? A week ago I was just as about to die as I am now. What made you change your mind, then?”

His tone was devoid of anger, or anything else, really. It was difficult to tell whether he was doing it on purpose or not – as per usual. Augustine's body tensed.

“I was... I was afraid to face you.”

As soon as he said it, it felt like he could no longer keep the rest in – he opened his mouth and everything fell out, a putrid lump of emotional vomit.

“I should have listened to you, I should have been more careful, I should have known it would come to this, this is my fault, I should have been the one stopping you months ago, this is all my fault, I'm the one who should be–”

“Shut up,” Lysandre roared – not with animosity, but loud enough for Augustine to realize his voice had been slowly raising as he spoke, becoming almost akin to loud, echoing screeches. “Shut up,” Lysandre repeated, his voice low, but still seemingly devoid of any emotion.

“None of this is your fault. Have some pride.”

Augustine felt his body stiffen upon hearing those last words, felt something like anger rising in his mind. He opened his mouth to shout at him, to say that he was right, that it was all his fault and what was he planning to do once he had the blood of the entire region on his hands? – but he remembered the execution and suddenly, arguing over who was right or wrong felt meaningless.

Somehow, Lysandre seemed to sense this change of mind.

“I was wrong,” he said firmly. “This is why I'm here, and this is why I'll be dead tomorrow. You did everything you could.”

That was a lie, Augustine thought, his head bowed and his breathing erratic for no reason other than the knowledge slowly dawning on him that he would not save this man. He could have done so much more back then; listened to Lysandre's plea more carefully, told him what he really thought in louder ways than subtle hints and jabs. He could have avoided feeding into Lysandre's obsessions – of course, he would have had to notice them before it was too late. He could have gone after him himself instead of sending out children and lab assistants, could have been more careful way before then, when Lysandre was his quiet and attentive pupil, dutifully taking notes and helping him with his research, more focused than him sometimes despite being several years younger – and looking much older, his gaze sometimes cold and unreadable under his furrowed brow.

There was not much he could do now.

“I can plead for you,” Augustine said, a little too high-pitched. “I could tell them you were not in your right mind, or you didn't mean to go through it, or you sincerely regret and will reform by my side. I could convince them.” _Even though I couldn't convince you_ , he thought, wetting his lips.

Lysandre sighed before shaking his head, slowly, his face solemn.

“It's too late now, Professor Sycamore.” Hearing the name in his mouth like this was like a punch to the gut for Augustine. “They will not listen to you, and even if they did... I do not want to be spared.”

Augustine inhaled, sharply. That was it, then.

“You want to die?” Augustine was pleased to hear that his voice wasn't shaking.

Lysandre smiled, a thin smile.

“You didn't see them, at the trial. The way they looked at me, the exact same looks they were all giving me. The hatred.” He made a noise with his tongue, appreciative almost. “Perhaps it is appropriate that this had to happen in order for me to finally understand what everyone was telling me about with such fervor – you included. Unity! They were united then, against the common enemy: me. I had tried to destroy them and they did not want that. Mostly though, they didn't want to see themselves in me, a man who had given up on the inhabitants of this world. A man obsessed with preserving the world for a few rather than working with a lot to preserve it. I had inspired them. _Hope_ , if you will.”

Augustine closed his mouth, only halfway realizing that he had held it open ever since Lysandre had started his speech. The man in question let out a little laugh, unfitting of his stature.

“I can't live with them anymore. I can't inspire them by staying alive.”

These words brought Augustine back to life, and he rose from his chair to get closer to him, moving his hands around frantically to get Lysandre to look at him.

“Yes you can!” he shouted, a bit too loud. “You can inspire them by staying alive and changing, by letting us prove you the world isn't as bad as it seems, that there is enough room for all of us to strive without provoking another great war. Please,” he added before he could stop himself.

Lysandre looked up to him – a strange feeling, a bit too otherworldly.

“No,” he said, his tone firm, without question. “I don't think so.”

It really was too late, then. Augustine suddenly felt extremely cold, from the core of his very being to the surface of his skin. It filled him with a strange sense of calm. He was standing, but his body seemed stuck, his hands trembling slightly; until unexpectedly he found himself walking towards the other man, crashing against him almost. He took Lysandre's face in his hands and sought out his lips with his own. He was only surprised to be offered no resistance for a second before his entire being melted into the kiss; something ferocious and oddly, sincere. He felt Lysandre's hand stroking his hair and let out a sound akin to a sob, muffled by their mouths. He broke away, breathless.

“This is what this is about then, once again,” Lysandre said after a short silence only punctuated by Augustine's loud breathing. Lysandre was careful not to look at him. “Too late this time, though, perhaps?”

The tone was neither bitter nor mocking but Augustine felt insulted nonetheless – he was showing his heart, exposing his sleeve, and that was what Lysandre chose to do with it. When Augustine lifted his head and shook his hair away to really look at Lysandre though, he understood.

“This won't change my mind,” Lysandre added – but the way the silence seemed to have bothered him, the way he was carefully avoiding his gaze, the way his face looked slightly more colorful than before...

This gave Augustine hope that maybe, maybe–

“You would have died,” Lysandre spoke again, his voice uncharacteristically cold and sharp, the voice Augustine imagined he used with his grunts when he ordered them to do things they didn't want to do. “I would have killed everyone, including you, including your precious pupils. Stop trying to be my savior.”

Wasn't that the funniest thing Augustine had heard all week, coming from a man who had convinced himself he was saving them all by destroying them. But something in his words struck Augustine, suddenly. He sat next to him on the prison bed, ignoring the way Lysandre shifted away from him, as if to avoid temptation.

“The children,” Augustine said finally. “They believed in you, like me. Serena, Shauna... they wanted so badly to save you. Why did they testify against you?”

Lysandre smirked, but it was a grimace of pain rather than satisfaction.

“I told them to,” he confessed simply. “I told them I had to disappear for good, to protect the world from my influence. I told them I would do it again. I told them that my death would be the death of my ideals and that it would take away any metaphorical honedges hovering over the heads of my subordinates.”

Augustine could only stare, horrified.

“They were reluctant at first. The excitable one, Shauna... she cried, even. I could see Serena was tearing up too, but Calem seemed to understand. Calem told them to go through it.”

Lysandre was still not looking at him, and so Augustine made no efforts to hide the horror and anger on his face. Calem _understood_? Calem had visited the laboratory this very week to hide and cry. Calem had sobbed and sobbed and asked why did Lysandre not want a second chance? Why couldn't he let them help? Why did he have to be as he was when they were fighting him in front of that terrible machine, unable to accept his defeat, unwilling to change? Augustine had had no answers, only tissues and nuzzles from his garchomp. The girls showed up to take Calem home, and the boy found himself unable to maintain the facade after hours of tears. They almost had to carry him, lift him by the shoulders, one girl for each. They were too young. Augustine had cried and drank wine after they were gone.

“So in this case, tell me,” Augustine's voice cracked this time, “don't lie to me now. Do you repent? Would you do it again? Do you not regret anything?”

The cell felt like it was shrinking the longer they were in it together. Lysandre pondered the questions for a few minutes before answering.

“If I was sure to be truly right this time, if I knew it was the only way... then yes, I would certainly do it once more.”

“You thought you were right then,” Augustine retorted, thinking: _you always think you're right, you still do_ but unable to say it.

“I thought a lot of things.”

Augustine felt colder and colder by the minute; what was that supposed to mean? Without really meaning to, he dropped his hand on Lysandre's arm and was surprised to find it so warm. The other man finally looked at him, and meeting the blue gaze was enough to warm him up – before sending him ten feet deeper, back under the ice.

He had to say it.

“Was it a lie, then? When we were... close.” He was stumbling over the words, over the thoughts. The memories he clung to even if they weren't much: late nights working in the lab, waking up to the warmth of Lysandre's coat on his shoulders as he realized he had dozed off during the night, the time Lysandre had brought him home-made pastries and Augustine had expected them to have been for everyone until Lysandre had made it clear they were for him and him alone, the cold summer night when it kept raining and they had stopped at a bus stop and there had been something so entrancing about Lysandre's hair being wet that he couldn't stop thinking about kissing him without feeling brave enough to do it.

The day he received Lysandre's last holocaster message proclaiming death to all that were not part of his secret crew. (Augustine wasn't.)

“I don't lie,” Lysandre said. “I've never lied to you, or anyone else. I thought this was what I was meant to do: saving this world... creating a new one. Preserving the beauty. I was wrong.”

Augustine thought of the children – had he not lied to them to get them to denounce him? Or did he truly believe he was a threat that had to be stopped? Without really noticing it, he gripped Lysandre's arm, as tightly as he could manage.

“You're shaking.” Lysandre's voice was close, too close. They were sitting on the bed in his apartments and he was about to show him the wonders of his new invention, the holocaster. They were sitting on a couch in the lab, resting after hours of hard work, and he was trying to think of the best way to convince Lysandre to kiss him.

They were sitting on a bed in a prison cell and Lysandre was set to die the next morning, his head rolling inside the basket.

“What about me,” Augustine let out, burying his face against Lysandre's shirt, his shoulder. “What will I become?”

It felt as if Lysandre had shuddered, but there was no way to be sure.

“Oh, I'm sure you will be fine. People will feel sorry for you, for having been manipulated by me all these years we spent together. They will forgive anything you might believe yourself guilty of. You will live a good and noble life and you will meet, I'm sure, someone much more worthy than me of worshiping your beautiful figure.”

Was it a smile he heard in his voice? The sound of his own heartbeat was so loud in Augustine's ears. He sighed against fabric, and this time, he was certain Lysandre had shuddered.

“If they can forgive _me_ , why wouldn't they forgive you, as well? If you show them you can reform, I'm sure...”

“Augustine,” Lysandre said, a warning. A name. Less hurtful than being called Professor, probably. “I will not reform. There is nothing left for me to do. I have lost my business, I have lost my reputation, I have lost my pride. When trying to do what I felt was the right thing, I ended up destroying things further. I thought I was saving the world but I was only tainting it further. I thought I was protecting pokémons but I was only using them to further my goals like those I despise. I was selfish when I thought I was being selfless.” He paused, and Augustine inhaled the scent of his shirt and his hair to remember it, later. “I am not the great man you wanted me to be – you _want_ me to be, still.”

Augustine pulled away, moving his hand back towards his own legs. Why was it that whenever he caught on a small glimmer of hope, it was snatched away again? He shook his head as if he wanted to wake up from a bad dream. It was just his luck: be attached to the man with the death wish.

“What about your subordinates? Your scientists? Will they not reform?”

Closing his eyes for a second, Lysandre smiled, a warm smile – but a sad smile also, perhaps.

“They will reform. I see great futures for them in a world I am no longer in, except as an idea inspiring the people to always be better than I was. They are easily forgiven: all they truly did was follow orders.”

“Even Xerosic?” Augustine could not hide the mocking tone in his voice, and Lysandre chuckled.

“Maybe not Xerosic. Xerosic is his own man, and I do not expect him to hide for long. I'm sure he will be back to business soon after I've died, and I'm sure he will see prison cells as clearly as I can know.”

“But they will not kill him?”

Lysandre shook his head, like an impatient teacher scorning his student – a role he had always been better at than the actual professor.

“Xerosic is a strange man with strange ethics, but he does not deserve to die.”

Augustine frowned, the anger back again, red behind his eyelids like the red of Lysandre's café, apartments, passion, _love_.

“But you do?”

He did not even look at him this time.

_“_ _Yes_.” Augustine opened his mouth to protest, but Lysandre went on. “What I had planned to do was mass-murder. I know what people are saying, when my name is on their mouths, my blood is in their eyes. I aim to please them, if it's the only good thing I do.”

With a soft sigh, Augustine put his face in his hands and closed his eyes. Talking to Lysandre about things they did not agree on had always felt like talking to a brick wall, a wall that he had always refused to mess around with for long, for fear of said wall crumbling upon them; but this time, it felt like the wall was made of stainless steel, and that even banging on it as hard as he could, even scratching at it, even screaming at the top of his lungs wouldn't do any damage at all.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, large and warm. Why was he so warm? He thought of another time, that felt like so long ago. Standing together with him in the café, introducing him to the children, talking about royal lineage and old legends.

What a passionate person.

“Augustine,” Lysandre said, but it was too late, wasn't it? It had been too late three weeks ago when it happened. It had been too late a week ago when he had been sentenced. It was too late now that they were sitting in the cell together.

Perhaps from the very beginning it had been too late.

Perhaps Lysandre had always been meant to die like this.

“Do you remember,” Augustine croaked, and he was taken aback by how strange he sounded, “our last kiss?”

He stared at Lysandre's face, searching for an expression, an answer, anything he could cling to. Lysandre looked surprised, for a split second, as if he suddenly remembered it. He smiled, but it wasn't much of a smile; then all of a sudden his face turned very serious as his eyes met Augustine's.

“We were at the café, it was a slow day. It was getting late, and you wanted to leave to go back to working but you wanted to stay with me as well. You kissed me behind the counter in the most discreet way possible but Diantha was there – you had invited her – and I thought she had seen us, so I told you we couldn't see each other like that in public. You got so upset and mad you stormed out without paying, leaving Diantha no other choice but to run out after you.” Lysandre paused briefly, his eyes turned towards Augustine but seemingly looking at nothing in particular, lost in the memory. “The next day, when I visited the lab, you apologized profusely and offered to pay me but I told you it was no big deal. You didn't remember what you ordered anyway, but I did. You asked for a coffee you put too much sugar in and only drank half of it, but ate two slices of my homemade apple pie.”

From the tone of his last words, Augustine thought he had more to say, but there was only silence as Lysandre seemed immersed in what he remembered of that evening and the day that followed. Augustine cleared his throat.

“That wasn't our last kiss,” he said softly.

Lysandre frowned, taken out of his daydream, and then seemed to understand, his face cold and neutral.

“Our _last_ kiss was around three weeks ago. We hadn't seen each other much since the 'incident' in the café with Diantha. Was it a conscious thing? Were you avoiding me or just busy finalizing your plans? Either way, when you came to me that night, I was elated. You were so gentle and sweet, apologizing for your absences, it was so unlike you, I should have known... but I wanted to trust you so much, and I missed you, and I was so frustrated that we could never truly have a relationship... it was a happy night we spent together, huh?”

Lysandre didn't answer, his face a closed book, a perfect mask of indifference. He wasn't even looking in his direction anymore.

“Made receiving that holocaster message the next day that much more painful,” Augustine added – spat out. It felt good to say it, to finally get that feeling out of his own mind.

At least, it felt good for a whole minute until he thought about the execution again and how all of this was meaningless, an exercise in futility. For all he knew, the other man didn't even care.

Lysandre's face was almost frightening; it was as if he was trying his absolute best not to betray any kind of emotion. Perhaps, he thought, that might doom him. Perhaps that night they kissed for the last time was the closest Augustine would ever get to a confession.

“Could I have convinced you that night to stop all of this before it was too late, I still wonder,” he murmured. Lysandre glanced at him.

“No, you couldn't have,” he said, and for once he seemed genuinely sorry about it. “Nobody could.”

It was strange, above all things, to see Lysandre admitting defeat. Augustine simply wished it could have been a defeat of a different kind. He felt exhausted, and weirdly disgusting, like he had been contaminated by a disease that made his whole body feel gross and aching.

Lysandre was going to die tomorrow.

There was nothing he could do about it.

He would never be able to convince him to let his heart speak up and to be together with him happily and openly. He would never again touch his beautiful red hair, feel the fur of his expansive coat tickling his chin, he would never again kiss those lips he had only touched rarely, too rarely.

It was a much too scary prospect. He wasn't ready for it three weeks ago, he wasn't ready for it one week ago, he wasn't ready for it now. He grabbed Lysandre's coat again, twisting it between his fingers as if attempting to rip it apart.

“Please,” he begged, one last time, a desperate attempt, the most pathetic. He breathed in and realized he had started to cry; looking at Lysandre's very pale face, it seemed as if he was crying too.

“Please go,” Lysandre asked, and it wasn't a plea like Augustine, but almost an order. “I can't stand it anymore.”

“Do you think I can?” Augustine sobbed, no longer caring how he looked, how he sounded. “Do you think I came here for the sheer pleasure that is hearing the man I love,” he felt Lysandre's entire body shiver against him, “telling me he deserves to die? He wants to die? Do you think _I_ can bear it?”

Upon gripping him he had gotten so close to Lysandre, getting his face as close as possible to his, and it seemed that there were really tears there, he was really crying, then why–

“You smell awful,” Lysandre said softly. “Have you been drinking?”

“Does it matter to you?” Augustine really was angry now, and not just tiptoeing at the very border of the feeling, and it felt liberating. “Does any of it matter to you at all? Did it matter to you at any time, or was it just some sort of sick game to distract you before blowing all of us up?”

There was an intense look in Lysandre's eyes suddenly, like a fire. A blazing flame.

“You were the most beautiful thing that happened to me, Professor Augustine Sycamore.”

Augustine's breath hitched as he felt his heart sink, as if Lysandre had just stepped on it again, and again, and again.

“But one beautiful thing wasn't enough to redeem the rest of the world.”

Maybe that made sense to him. Augustine disagreed, but there was no point in arguing anymore. He couldn't bring himself to do it.

“Fine,” he sighed. “I give up. You win.”

“No,” Lysandre said, putting his hand on Augustine's shoulder, close to his neck – too close – the look in his eyes earnest, the smile on his face sincere. “You win. Please never forget it. You are stronger than you think you are.”

He lowered his gaze, and then, whispered so low Augustine wondered for a long time after whether he had heard it right:

“ Je t'aime.”

Augustine stood up as if to run away, walking to the door to call out for it to be opened, wiping his face on his sleeve, making sure not to look at Lysandre. Making sure to ignore how light his body felt, ignore the anxiety building up in his stomach, the headache coming on.

When the officer escorted him out of the corridor he commented on how pale he looked, but Augustine barely heard. He registered nothing until suddenly he was out in the street in the cold, stumbling, falling towards a wall, grabbing it and scratching his hand in the process, vomiting at his feet. Bile, wine, and the sandwich he had managed to ingest the day before. Until his throat burned and he felt dizzy.

Then he walked back to his apartments, doing his best once again to ignore the taste in his mouth and the tears pouring from his eyes.

He could not sleep.

*** * ***

He had to go.

There was no way to avoid it. He had to go. It didn't matter whether he was exhausted, whether he had ingested nothing but two glasses of wine, whether he was going to see his friend die. He had to go.

He would hate himself if he didn't.

It was such a beautiful day in the middle of such a morose winter. It was still cold, but the sun was there, and the birds also. Augustine could hear their chirping all around as he walked to Prism Tower and he wanted to fly away with them, or maybe die. If he could die right there – right there on the pavement, a sudden heart attack, or whatever else – then he thought maybe he could attain bliss, far away from all this mess.

Of course, it wouldn't be given to him now. He had an execution to attend to.

There were more people than he expected already. Public executions weren't a common thing in Kalos, contrary to popular belief; people had been protesting about it quite a bit, and crimes that asked for such a drastic punishment were rare. Maybe that was why the whole thing had been wrapped up so fast: a desire to appease the angry mobs, an attempt to get it done quick so everyone could just forget about it. Still, all these people...

As soon as he arrived, it seemed like the whole crowd had felt silent. The conversations started up again after a few seconds, but Augustine noticed people were avoiding him, his body and his gaze. It was as if a path was being created for him through all the bodies just so he could get as close as possible to...

Augustine had only ever seen guillotines in history books. The last time someone had been executed, he was quite young and his mother had refused to take him. Secretly, he had been grateful for it. With trembling lips, he wished for his mother to be there now, to take him away from all this.

It was bigger than he had expected it to be, and the way the blade glistened in the morning sun made him sick. Officers were preventing civilians from getting too close; one gave him an apologetic glance, but he ignored them.

Now all he – they – could do was wait.

Thinking back to the previous evening, he felt his whole body shaking. Could he have saved him at any point in their lives? He had always hoped maybe his own optimism and enthusiasm, and the relationship they shared – however you wanted to call it – would be enough to fill the giant gap Lysandre seemed to hold inside of him, but obviously he had been misguided. Lysandre was right; nobody could have saved him.

Yet, staring at the blade of the guillotine, Augustine couldn't help feeling responsible. He thought his legs would give out. He should have called Diantha, asked her – what? To accompany him? She would have refused: for as much as she despised Lysandre for what he had attempted, she found the death penalty to be a disgusting and futile thing. Augustine wondered whether she had tried to prevent it. What could she have done, really? The authority she held as the Champion was nothing compared to the anger of a crowd, or the decisions of any higher ups.

To hide at her place then, maybe? Would he have been so cowardly as to do such a thing, after begging Lysandre to let him beg forgiveness in his name? No, of course. He had to be there. He had to at least give Lysandre that, if he couldn't save him.

There was a whisper through the crowd, and suddenly, a cohort of officers showed up from one of the nearby street. Augustine's heartbeat was so loud, it felt like his whole self was vibrating. He was sweating, even in the cold weather, and kept wiping his hands on his coat in vain. His agitated state had to be obvious to everyone. He didn't care.

The officers dispersed, and Lysandre appeared, handcuffed, but oddly triumphant. He was smiling. A man announced something – his name, his crimes probably – but Augustine was too busy staring at Lysandre's face to pay any attention.

He looked so pleased, at peace almost. He had never seen him like this; even when they shared intimate moments there had always been a distance, a tension always present in Lysandre that was surely caused by the omnipresent thoughts regarding his plans for Team Flare.

Now, handcuffed and about to die, Lysandre looked free.

Augustine was too entranced to even cry, his face tense and white as a sheet. If someone asked him if he was alright, he never heard. All he could do was stare.

They were going to let him talk, but Lysandre had nothing to say. Instead, he bowed, still smiling, ignoring the boos from the crowd.

Augustine startled suddenly; there were children there, children whose mothers had let them come to watch a man die. They were booing along with the others, maybe not realizing what was going on. He swallowed a wave of nausea and turned back to Lysandre in time to see him kneel.

He wanted to scream, tell them to stop, yell at them. Were they really going to execute a man in front of all these people? In front of children? Was this man's life so worthless in their eyes? But he didn't move, didn't say a word. For Lysandre, millions of lives had been worthless compared to the opportunity to clear the world of what was polluting it.

Everything suddenly felt surreal, like a hazy dream, a nightmare of the worst kind. It was a beautiful morning. He was standing in front of a crowd.

Kneeling, his head being put in place for the whole thing to go as smoothly as possible, Lysandre was preparing for death.

Augustine clenched his fists, too hard, until he could barely feel them, could barely feel anything except absolute anguish as Lysandre kept smiling, smiling, smiling...

Unable to breath, his chest feeling like it was being thoroughly crushed by an unknown force, Augustine wanted to run away or at least turn his head or close his eyes but he was still staring. There was a warning, something he didn't get. He unclenched one fist to grip at his coat, hard. A metallic sound, a creak–

The blade fell suddenly, without further warning. It made an almost unreal sound as it cut through air at high speed, but there was no sound when it met flesh and cut it perfectly as it was meant to.

Augustine couldn't regain control of himself fast enough to avoid seeing Lysandre's body spasm as his head was separated from the rest of his body.

The smell of blood spread quickly in the air. Augustine vaguely heard some complaints, someone had fainted, someone had vomited on someone else' shoes. A child was crying loudly, but all of it felt like it was far, far away from Augustine's grasp. It felt like he was underwater and everyone else was on the shore. He was looking at his feet and everything was blurry but the tears weren't falling from his eyes. They just stayed there, patiently, like a protection from the outside world and what was taking place there.

He felt like he was sick. He felt like he was floating. He felt like he was drowning. There was a bitter taste in his mouth and it took him a second to register it was reflux and another to register his whole body was shaking and a third to notice someone was talking to him, and had probably been doing it for at least several minutes.

He moved his lips without opening them, grimacing, making a vague sound with his throat. The person who was talking to him took that as a good sign.

“Professor, you seem to be in shock,” he sort of heard, somewhere in the vicinity of his left ear – or was that his right? “Why did you come to witness this? Professor, please blink twice if you can hear me.”

Remembering how to use his eyelids, he complied.

“Okay, great,” the voice said in an encouraging tone, and now he could hear it was a girl he knew, and now he could see her somewhere in his peripheral vision – well, the lower half of her body at least. He knew her.

“Nurse Joy?” he managed to articulate. How long had he been standing here? His legs felt heavy and painful.

“Good! You recognize me!” She was smiling, maybe. “Come here.”

Carefully, she led him to a nearby bench and helped him sit. Augustine was slowly regaining control of himself and looked around to see that, indeed, the place was clearing out. Lysandre's body was nowhere to be found. He didn't know how he felt about that.

The nurse gestured to a chansey and it promptly brought her a large blanket. Making sure not to startle him, she spread it on Augustine's shoulders.

“How do you feel?” she asked while studying his face carefully. He shifted his body a little to get more comfortable.

“Death.” His voice was very low. She leaned forward and, frowning a little, sniffed at him. He hadn't showered in a while and probably smelled of alcohol. Despite himself, he felt his cheeks heat up. At least he smelled like expansive kalosian wine and not cheap store-bought whiskey.

“You need a hot drink and a shower,” the nurse said disapprovingly, but just thinking about ingesting something made him feel sick. Still...

Noticing the expression on his face, the nurse took off the shoulder-bag she was carrying and shuffled through it. She took out a bottle of water and handed it to Augustine with an encouraging smile.

“There,” she said. “Better than nothing.”

He thanked her and took a sip, grimacing slightly when his stomach growled in protest.

“What are you doing here?” he asked after a couple more drinks. The nurse looked at the dispersing crowd, most people having already left or at least walked far enough away that they could discuss what they had just witnessed without being heard by strangers.

“People think they can handle it, but there's always a few who can't. I come to take care of them.”  
She looked very sure of herself, sitting there with her back very straight. Augustine wished he could share that feeling. He slumped forward a little more.

He drank more water while staring at his feet in silence until he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Professor, are you going to be alright?” Nurse Joy asked softly.

“Who knows,” he said with a small smile, because there was nothing else to say, really. He cleared his throat and added: “Maybe you should go help these other folks. I'll be fine for now.”

The nurse didn't seem so sure of that, but perhaps understanding he needed time alone and knowing she had already done her best to help him, she didn't complain. With a nod and a warm smile, she stood up, putting her bag back around her shoulder. She moved aside to wave good bye, but was interrupted by the arrival of an officer.

“Excuse me, Professor Sycamore, right?” The man seemed uneasy, like he didn't want to be here and would prefer if what he was required to do could go as quickly and smoothly as possible.

Frowning slightly, Augustine stood up, still holding the water bottle. “Yes, what is it?”

The officer cast a glance towards the nurse who had still not moved, making her face redden. With a quick wave and an awkward smile, she went away, taking her chansey assistant with her.

The officer chewed on his lower lip while he watched her walk away, and when he was certain she was gone, started searching through his pocket. He found a box there, covered by a small red bag, and Augustine felt the nausea rushing back.

“This is for you,” the officer said, stumbling on the words, and Augustine thought this was somewhat unprofessional. “He said he wanted you to have it.”

“I don't want it,” Augustine wanted to say, but he could only stare at the bag, thinking back to Lysandre's hand the previous day, strangely naked without his ring.

“There's more but, ah, it's things that require a lot of procedures, and he asked that at least this should be given to you directly.”

Seeing as Augustine still wasn't reacting, he insisted: “Please take it.”

With trembling hands, Augustine finally gestured to take the box, to the officer's immense relief. He said nothing more about it, simply wishing him well and leaving to take care of everything else that had to do with this, Augustine supposed.

That had to do with Lysandre being dead.

The box – the bag, the ring – felt heavy and cold in his hand.

It was time to go home.

*** * ***

  
The doors to his laboratory were open when he finally got out of the overwhelming lumiosian subway. This did not worry him – if anything, the knowledge that someone would be there for emotional support was comforting. He dropped the now empty water bottle in one of the trash cans of the lower floor and walked to the elevator.

Everything still felt like a very vague dream. He kept thinking about–

Lysandre's head rolling in the basket–

The loud chatter of the crowd all around–

He got out of the elevator and walked inside his office. He was barely surprised to find Diantha sitting at one of the desks, reading through one of his files, superb in her black dress. Did she mean to grieve Lysandre? It was an odd idea; perhaps she had simply meant to pay respects, or maybe she just felt like wearing that dress.

She looked up and smiled at him, a smile that held so much: comfort, trust, hope, understanding even, maybe.

Lysandre had always feared Diantha, all the while constantly praising her for her performances and devotion to the country and his people. Augustine thought back to his talks of humans and pokémon of Kalos having to unite, his speeches about how good it was that some were so involved in the cause of many. Were those lies? Did he believe it at any point? Would Augustine ever know?

Diantha noticed his pale face and stood up to embrace him. It was a simple gesture, and she had said nothing, but Augustine couldn't hold back the tears. He let himself slump against her almost, held her in his arms, tightly, as if he was afraid that she, too, was on her way to die.

He cried and cried and when he thought he was done, he cried some more. He had never been one to take comfort in tears – they made your throat hurt and your nose run and your eyes ache – but this time it felt like crying in Diantha's arms was what he had desperately needed for weeks.

“Augustine.” Diantha's voice was gentle, but firm. “There was nothing you could do for him.”

“I know,” he sobbed. “I know.”

They broke away from each other and Augustine let out a long sigh as he wiped his tears with his sleeve. He took off his coat and put it on a chair. Diantha watched without a word as he looked through his pockets and found the box, which he showed to her.

“He wanted me to have it,” he said, his voice unsure. He felt strange holding it. Seeing as Diantha still wasn't saying anything, he opened the box, revealing the ring inside. The mega stone shined in the light.

“I have no use for it,” Augustine added, staring at the stone. “I already have stones like this one, and I can't... I can't use it myself.” It's tainted, he wanted to add – but even if that hadn't been the case, he knew he couldn't use mega evolution, no matter what Lysandre had said.

Diantha was hesitant. “Do you want me to take it from you? If it pains you to see it.”

Augustine found himself clutching the box suddenly, as if he was afraid Diantha would forcefully take it from him. He didn't want to have it... but he didn't want to leave it, either. His hand shook, a spasm, and he dropped the box. It fell on the floor with a thud, the whole thing breaking apart; the ring flew under the desk, and the inside of the box it was kept in was also ejected a few centimeters away.

Cursing, Augustine bent over to pick up everything, as Diantha mirrored him and took hold of the ring.

There was something left inside the box, Augustine realized as he put it down on the desk along with the rest. Two things, actually. A plain silver necklace, and a piece of paper that had been folded several times. They must have been hidden under the protective layer that was holding the ring in place. Diantha was distracted by her examination of the ring in her hands, and so he said nothing. He put everything back in place and looked up at her.

“I think I'll keep it,” he said, trying to smile. She didn't seem convinced, but she gave the ring back.

He played with it a little, watching it shine as it moved. Diantha cleared her throat.

“I have events to attend to,” she said once Augustine's gaze was on her once again. “I can cancel them if you'd rather have me stay with you, though,” she added with a calming smile.

Augustine smiled back, a bit more convincing this time, closing his fist on the ring. “I'll be fine, don't worry. I'll call you.”

She nodded, her eyes lingering on the hand that hid the mega ring. She got close to Augustime again to put her hand on his arm.

“None of this was your fault. Please don't forget that.”

She waved a little and so did he. As she walked out, he mouthed the words, _I won't_ , but no actual sound came out of his mouth.

When he was certain she had left, he sat at the desk and put the ring back inside the box with great care. Then, he lifted all that was inside it to reveal the paper and necklace once more. He took the piece of paper, thinking about what it could be. A letter from Lysandre? What could be written in it?

There was only one way to find out.

He unfolded the piece of paper slowly, his hands shaking so much he worried he was going to tear it apart without meaning to. It was larger than he had expected, and when he was done he was puzzled. In his hands he was holding a drawing, all crumpled and probably very old. It had to have been drawn by a small child; on one side, you could see what Augustine assumed was supposed to be a boy, drawn with orange hair, and standing next to him was a gyarados, towering over the orange haired boy. Augustine inhaled sharply.

He turned the paper around, revealing a letter addressed to him. He put his finger where Lysandre had written his name in quickly executed cursive and sighed.

“To Professor Augustine Sycamore,

As you read this letter, I have been executed. I expect you already know, although I ignore whether or not you came to witness it. I'd like to believe you didn't.

When I was younger, I imagined my future self as the man who would save this world. Even now, I'm not certain why I thought the world needed saving at the time. It was a tradition in the family to pass on the stories of our ancestors so that we wouldn't repeat them. That is how I learned about the machine.

I did not write this letter to talk about past and present mistakes, though. I wanted to thank you.  
Your work and enthusiasm proved useful not only in my research but also in my personal life. For a moment, after we met, I almost thought that maybe the world wasn't as doomed as I had started to think. I wanted to be hopeful. I stayed by your side and kept working toward our goals.

As you know, all of it proved pointless. I couldn't keep faith in this world for long, in the end. Still, it was you who brought me hope. Who always praised me, believed in me. I wanted to apologize. Not for what I did, but for betraying your trust. It was a precious thing to me. I'm sorry I had to meddle with it.

I don't know if you're aware of it as you read this letter, as I'm writing it several days in advance, but my gyarados has been injured in the cave-in caused by the machine, and even now he still seems to be doing badly. I instructed that my pokémon, along with the stone my gyarados held, should be given out to your lab, as they have nothing to do with what I attempted to do. I trust you will take good care of them. I do not doubt that my gyaradosite has been damaged, but I ask that you do not dispose of it. Please give it to one of the children you chose to wield mega evolution. They are remarkable and are sure to do better things with it than I ever did.

If one of my scientists ever contact you, please take good care of them. They are good people who believed in a noble cause. We were all fools, in the end.

I think that's all I wanted to write. I'll hide this along with my ring and hope no one messes with it.  
I wish you a long and successful life, Augustine. Do not waste time mourning me. It is not worth it.

Thank you for what you have done for me and the world.

My warmest sympathies,

L”

There was a dull pain in his hand and Augustine only realized it when he was done reading. He let go of the desk, unable to remember when he had started clinging to it.

His vision blurred slightly, but he didn't want to cry anymore. He turned the letter around and stared at the orange haired boy on the drawing.

“The man who would save the world, huh,” he mumbled to himself. Without really knowing why, he chuckled.

The world had to keep on turning.

He took the necklace and unfastened it to pass it through the ring and then around his neck. The coldness of it as it laid against his bare skin made him shiver.

He hid it under his shirt and attempted to get back to work to the best of his abilities.

*** * ***

“So this is Monsieur Lysandre's pyroar, then,” Shauna said as she faced the fierce creature, and you could hear tears in her voice, a little.

“So it is,” Augustine replied with a friendly smile. “You can pet it if you want. I think he's a bit lonely.”

He immediately regretted saying this, as it seemed to sadden the girl even further. She had stayed behind to help tidying up the lab a little while Serena and Calem were out with Sina to look for data in the field, which mostly involved Serena and Calem doing mega evolution battles together and was too dangerous inside the lab, even in the garden. Dexio was taking care of garchomp alongside Trevor after they had run some tests, and so the professor was left with Shauna, and Lysandre's former team.

The young girl crouched further and slowly advanced her hand towards the pyroar's face. A pyroar's mane was too hot to be touched, of course.

Seeing as she had not been bit or roared at, Shauna finally let her hand rest on top of the beast's nose, and slowly, careful, started petting him.

“I think he likes you, ” Augustine said happily, depositing a bunch of files on the nearest desk.

“Do you miss your owner very much?” Shauna whispered, close to the pyroar's face. He closed his eyes. “I bet you do. I bet the professor does as well. I'm sorry he left you both.”

Augustine bit his lower lip, but said nothing. The past month had been rough. But he had to be strong, for everyone's sake, including his own. “You are stronger than you think,” Lysandre had said, his face open and bright. It seemed like just yesterday they could hold hands in the lab, quietly, without even looking at each other, a gesture they did without thinking about it, that seemed so mundane then but now felt so meaningful.

There was the sound of something he had dropped – a pen? several? a file maybe – and Shauna turned around, distracted from her careful petting.

“Professor?” she said, as she stood up slowly. “Professor. You're crying.”

It was true of course, but what could be done about it? He felt her get close, and then her arms around him.

“It's okay to cry, Professor, it's okay.”

Hearing her say that only made him cry harder, and tears were still falling down his cheeks when he felt something touching his face. He opened his eyes.

It was Lysandre's murkrow, that he had let out to fly around the room a little. When he was sure Augustine had noticed him, he carefully perched himself on his shoulder and let his head rest against the human's hair.

“Thank you,” Augustine whispered. Shauna broke off her hug upon seeing the murkrow and laughed.

“You see, there's no reason to feel lonely! Everyone is here for you, professor. Please don't be too sad.”

“I'll try,” Augustine said. It was a promise.

When Calem, Serena and Sina came back, the lab was mostly clean, and Dexio had gone out with Trevor to buy galettes for everyone, including the pokémon. They ate and laughed and Serena told them about how she kept winning against Calem, prompting him to throw a galette at her and then pretend he hadn't done it. Shauna gave good news of Tierno and his dancing, and Augustine assured them Trevor was on his way to becoming a great researcher. As everyone laughed at garchomp's inability to eat a galette without making a huge mess, Augustine touched the ring through his clothes and smiled sadly. He had not been able to save Lysandre, but Serena was taking great care of his now perfectly healthy gyarados, and everything seemed to be in order. Diantha had received great support when she gave a speech against the death penalty, perhaps paving the way towards its abolition.

_I wish your master was here to see this_ , Augustine thought, petting the pyroar that had sat next to him. He stared in the professor's eyes and it felt like he was trying to comfort him. _You are stronger than you think you are_ , the eyes said.

Perhaps they were right.  


End file.
